


Aperture

by Gruoch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, May Parker's Home for Wayward Boy Genius Superheroes, Mistakes Are Made, Or Thinks He Does, Personal Demons, STEM superiority complex, Tony Stark knows best, Tony Stark's A+ parenting, but love abides, good intentions gone awry, high school internships, miscommunications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gruoch/pseuds/Gruoch
Summary: “I thought you weremyintern,” Tony says.“Well, yeah, but it’s not like official or anything,” Peter reasons. “I can’t exactly put Spider-Man on my resume. Miss Potts had me fill out paperwork and everything.”“Oh, well—paperwork.Very fancy. And what exactly are you doing for this ‘official internship’?” Tony asks, pouring himself a much needed cup of coffee.“Um, she has me doing some marketing stuff.”Tony spins around, sloshing coffee everywhere, his eyebrows shooting upward. “Marketing?”
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 159
Kudos: 824
Collections: god tier spider-man fics





	Aperture

Tony is in the midst of the excruciatingly finicky work of weaving gossamer-thin nanofiber bundles together by hand when the music in the lab cuts out and an alarm starts blaring. He flinches under the onslaught of the sudden cacophony, accidentally tearing the fiber bundles out of their framework.

Tony straightens up, cursing under his breath as he spins his chair around. “What’s that? What’s that alarm? Is something on fire?”

 _“That’s the alarm you set last night to wake you up in the morning, in the event that you actually fell sleep,”_ FRIDAY answers. 

“Morning?” Tony glances out the lab’s eastward wall of windows while he shakes the cramps out of his hands. A thin, peachy-pink ribbon of light is just visible weaving behind the city’s skyline.

“Are you sassing me?” he asks. His current A.I. iteration is no JARVIS, but every now and again she can get a little sharp in the tooth. “That sounded a _pinch_ sassy. Your timing was absolutely exquisite, by the way. That’s eight hours of work down the drain.”

_“I am merely performing the function you requested of me, boss.”_

“Uh-huh.” Tony stretches, aware now of the ache in his neck and shoulders from sitting hunched over the workbench all night. He feels that odd combination of bone-deep physical fatigue and twitchy nervous energy that results from too few hours of sleep, garnished with the thudding headache pangs and dry-mouth of too much alcohol. He is suddenly desperate for a cup or twelve of strong black coffee.

He lurches up to his feet and heads for the stairs, clinging to the rail and climbing up a bit unsteadily. A thought feebly unfurls in the back of his mind that perhaps he is getting too old for these booze-fueled all-nighters, that maybe this lifestyle is starting to catch up to him and he needs to make some serious changes. Right now, though, what he needs is caffeine and a handful of aspirin.

He emerges into the kitchen like an anchorite coming out of seclusion for the first time in years, squinting and blinking against the bright overhead lights as he staggers over to the island. He stands there for a moment, steadying himself with one hand planted on the countertop and pawing at the stubble roughening his jaw with the other, noisily coughing up phlegm. 

It takes him a few long, bleary moments to realize he’s not alone. 

Peter is sitting on a stool at the island, his phone in hand. A video plays on the screen, but the kid’s attention is focused on the spectacle unfolding at the end of the island. He peers over at Tony, looking a little wide-eyed and wary as he takes in the man’s disheveled state.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says eventually, politeness overriding bemusement.

“Hey, kid.” Tony squints at him. “Why are you in my kitchen at this ungodly hour?”

“Miss Potts asked me to come?” 

“Is that a question or a statement?” Tony asks as he shuffles over to make coffee. “Try that again but commit to it this time. Less Bambi, more young buck.”

“She asked me to come,” Peter says, a little steadier. “To help her with some things. I thought she would have told you, is all. I’ve been helping her for like a month now. She said I can put it on my college applications and stuff.”

Tony frowns. Had Pepper said something to him? It’s all a fog. 

“I thought you were _my_ intern,” he says.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not like official or anything,” Peter reasons. “I can’t exactly put Spider-Man on my resume. Miss Potts had me fill out paperwork and everything.”

“Oh, well— _paperwork._ Very fancy. And what exactly are you doing for this ‘official internship’?” Tony asks, pouring himself a much needed cup of coffee.

“Um, she has me doing some marketing stuff.”

Tony spins around, sloshing coffee everywhere, his eyebrows shooting upward. “ _Marketing?_ ”

“Yeah?”

Peter has a way of making himself smaller. Taking up less space. A defense mechanism, Tony thinks, for a kid who’s dealt with bullying his whole life. Tony was the opposite—his thing has always been to take up as much space as possible, be bigger, bolder, louder than everyone else. _Pay attention to me,_ even if it means getting hit.

The kid’s doing it now, rolling his shoulders forward and curling inward, the line of his jaw tense.

Tony’s first impulse is to tell him to sit up straight, but he reels away from it. He turns away instead and starts rifling through the fridge.

“ _Marketing,_ ” he mutters to himself, feeling vaguely nauseated, though he isn’t sure whether it’s caused by his hangover or his disgust with this abomination of an internship or something else entirely.

“You want...eggs?” he asks Peter. He peers into the pantry. “Or—pancakes? I can probably do pancakes.”

“I’m good, Mr. Stark, thank you.”

“I’m making you pancakes,” Tony says firmly. He turns the griddle on, and then gets a bowl out and starts dumping boxed pancake mix into it, not bothering to measure it out. 

“I mean, okay, if you really want to,” Peter says a bit helplessly.

“I really want to,” Tony replies, pouring milk by eye into the bowl and stirring the mixture with a spatula.

Peter looks wide-eyed at the full-to-the-brim bowl. “That’s gonna be a _lot_ of pancakes.”

Tony clucks his tongue dismissively. “I’ve seen you eat a lot of pancakes before. I swear you have a hollow leg.”

“I guess,” Peter says faintly as he watches Tony pour lakes of batter out onto the hot griddle. “But like, I just ate breakfast not even a half-hour ago, so you really don’t have to—”

He’s rescued by Pepper coming down the stairs, looking immaculately put together in a sleeveless white dress and heels, appearing in stark contrast to Tony’s disheveled state. She smiles when she sees Peter.

“Good morning, Peter. Sorry for leaving you waiting,” she tells him.

“Hi, Miss Potts,” Peter says, straightening up and beaming at her. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”

Tony waves his spatula at her, feeling ignored. “Good morning, honey.”

Pepper turns towards him and offers a chilly smile. “Good morning, Tony,” she says, before returning her attention to Peter. “Are you ready to go, sweetheart?”

“Yes, I’m ready,” Peter chirps, sliding off the stool.

“Hey! No—what about your pancakes?” Tony asks, waving his spatula at the kid this time. 

Peter looks from him to Pepper, his expression almost pleading. 

Pepper puts a reassuring hand on the kid’s shoulder before addressing Tony, a silent warning written in the hard lines of her brows and mouth. “We’re running late. You can make pancakes for him another time, right?” 

“What am supposed to do with all these now?” Tony asks irritably, gesturing to the misshapen pancakes spread over the griddle.

“Put them in the freezer,” Pepper suggests. She turns to Peter once more. “Why don’t you go ahead and go downstairs and wait in the car? I’ll be right down in a minute.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees, sounding relieved. “Bye, Mr. Stark, thanks for the pancakes!”

“You didn’t even eat them,” Tony calls after him. 

“You should’ve let him eat them,” he adds to Pepper once Peter is out the door. “The whole damn freezer is going to be full of pancakes now. I’m off gluten—I’m not gonna eat them. Who’s gonna eat them, huh?”

Pepper ignores his complaint. “Tony. You never came to bed last night. Again.” 

“And _you_ stole my intern,” Tony retorts, pointing an accusatory spatula at her.

“You’re deflecting,” Pepper says, pushing the spatula away. “We need to discuss what’s going on with you.”

“What we need to discuss is why the hell you have the kid doing _marketing,_ ” Tony spits out. “You’re wasting his talents. He has a brilliant scientific mind, Pep. He’s a child prodigy. He’s going to be an _engineer._ ”

Pepper looks at him from under arched eyebrows. “Like his old man?” 

“Exactly,” Tony says, slapping the spatula against the palm of his hand.

“And _who_ is that, Tony?” Pepper asks pointedly. 

That question takes the wind right out of Tony’s sails.

“Well. I mean, does it matter, really?” he says a little defensively. “Isn’t it good for kids to have a male role model of some kind? I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere. I’m just trying to help out. Keep him on the right path and all that. And that path does _not_ include marketing.”

“Maybe you should let Peter decide that. He has a lot of interests outside of the lab. You should encourage those, too. Like the photography and the videos—you know about that, right?”

Tony scoffs. “Of course I do, that kid is always filming something. Don’t all kids do that? I thought these days they just slide right out of the womb with a phone in their hands, live-streaming their own births—”

“He’s made several really wonderful promotional videos for SI’s webpage,” Pepper continues over him. “Vance Cassidy has been very impressed with his editing skills. He’s the one you really need to worry about stealing your intern.”

“ _Who?_ ”

“One of the managing directors at Wieden and Kennedy—you know, the award-winning advertising agency that we pay very handsomely to create marketing campaigns for your company,” Pepper answers patiently, managing to sound only very slightly patronizing. “He’s been letting Peter use the equipment and software at their studio.”

“Is that the suspenders guy? I hope you’re not letting a guy named Vance who wears suspenders influence _my_ young, impressionable intern. If this kid ends up a liberal arts major or— _god forbid_ —at some art and design college because of this internship I’m going to lose my damn mind. It will kill me, Pepper,” Tony says, jabbing the spatula at her like a weapon. “I’m not joking around right now. It will kill me, and it will be _your_ fault.”

Pepper sighs, her patience fracturing. “Tony, you really need to get some sleep because you’re being ridiculous right now. It’s a high school internship. It’s not that serious.”

“I know that, but you could have at least talked to me before—”

“I talked to May,” Pepper interjects. “She signed off on everything. She thinks this internship is very good for Peter.”

Tony reels back. “You talked to _May?_ You _talk_ to May?”

“From time to time, yes.”

“Oh, I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all,” Tony says, pacing back and forth behind the island. “That’s asking for trouble. The two of you are already ganging up on me behind my back. I mean, I really think I should have been included in this discussion. That’s _my_ protégé. I should have a say in his professional development.”

“And what about what _your_ protégé thinks? Shouldn’t his opinion matter?” Pepper asks. “Because Peter says he’s enjoying it.”

“Of _course_ he told you that. He’s a people-pleaser. He doesn’t have an assertive bone in his body. He’d drink bleach before he’d say anything that could remotely offend someone.”

“Then this should be very beneficial. Get him out of his comfort zone a little. Provide him with some actual structure that kids benefit from.” Pepper gives Tony a pointed look. “Structure that has maybe been lacking a little under your…mentorship.”

“What are you talking about? I can do structure,” Tony insists. “I’m a goddamn engineer. I know how to...to make schedules and organize project goals and all that bullshit.”

“Your pancakes are burning,” Pepper says, pointing at the griddle behind him.

“ _Shit._ ”

“It’s called a rotational internship,” Pepper explains while Tony scrapes blackened pancakes into the trash. “This month he’s doing marketing, yes, but next month I’ll put him in with R&D where he can science his little heart out. I would have explained that to you upfront if you hadn’t been so busy frothing at the mouth. I have an actual plan, Tony.”

“Of course you do, honey,” Tony says, feeling somewhat mollified. He looks over at her. “When did you become so knowledgeable about what kids need?”

“It’s pretty basic knowledge,” Pepper says with a little shake of her head.

Tony puts his hands on her hips and tugs her against him. “Is it weird I think it’s kinda sexy?”

“It’s definitely a little weird, yes,” Pepper says, but he can feel her lips curving into a smile against his own when he kisses her.

“What do you think, though?” he murmurs, nosing along the soft curve of her neck. 

“About what?”

“You know—a kid,” Tony says somewhere in the region of her clavicle, not daring to say the words directly to her face. “Maybe?”

Pepper leans back and makes him look her in the eye, her expression incredulous. “Are you seriously trying to have this conversation with me right now? When you are very clearly hungover from drinking last night? The night you spent the entirety of in your lab while I was alone upstairs in bed? _Again?_ I’m not sure I’d trust you right now to remember to water the houseplants while I’m out of town. Don’t even try me with this baby talk.”

“Okay. Okay. Not the right time. I get it. It was just a thought,” Tony says quickly, chastened but not entirely deterred. “But I’d be happy to go to bed now—with you.” He presses another kiss against her lips. “Give you a proper sendoff.”

Pepper puts a hand on his chest and leans further away. “Peter is waiting in the car.”

“So? He can wait a few more minutes.”

“ _A few more minutes?_ ” Pepper repeats, looking amused. “I don’t know whether that sounds completely disappointing or _extremely_ overconfident.”

“Sounds like a challenge to me,” Tony says, grinning.

“Well, it’s not happening,” Pepper says, delicately stepping out of his grasp. “I’m already late for my next meeting, and if it runs long I’ll have to reschedule my flight to Norway.”

Tony frowns at her. “Norway? I thought you were going to California.”

“I was in California last week,” Pepper says, a mixture of exasperation and concern bleeding through her tone. “This week is the clean energy expo in Oslo. We just talked about this yesterday.”

“Of course we did. I knew that.”

Pepper kisses him, chastely. “Go to bed, Tony. Don’t bully poor Peter about this internship while I’m gone.”

“Bully? I don’t bully him,” Tony says, frowning at her. “Do you think I bully him? I mean, that kid is always talking back to me. If anything, _he’s_ bullying _me._ ”

“Mm-hm. Go to bed, Tony,” Pepper says again, smiling. 

“Yeah, alright, honey,” Tony says a little ruefully, rapping his knuckles against the counter.

“And we’re still going to discuss all of this when I get back from my trip,” Pepper adds as she straightens her dress.

“Having a baby?” Tony asks hopefully.

Pepper shoots him a warning look. “The drinking and not sleeping, I mean. I’m giving you lots of time to prepare, so don’t offer me bullshit excuses.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Bullshit excuses? Me?” 

Pepper puts a hand on his chest again, her expression serious. “Please, Tony. I know you have a lot on your mind and on your plate, but take care of yourself while I’m gone. Don’t hide yourself away in your lab all week, and _please_ watch the drinking. Just—be careful, alright?”

He kisses her one last time. “Anything for you, Pep.”

***

Later, much later—Tony is ensconced in his lab below the penthouse once more. He feels a little guilty about it, after the promise he’s made Pepper—but he _is_ completely sober, he can say that much at least. He is a man who is forever attempting to right his wrongs, with mixed success.

Which is why he is currently many hours deep into research about cameras.

“I was in the city yesterday,” Rhodey says over the holographic call display hovering beside Tony on his desk. “Gave the commencement speech at Columbia.”

Tony makes an affirming noise, only half-listening as he scrolls through endless reviews of various professional camera models. It’s two A.M. and he knows Rhodey is checking in on him. Rhodey calls most nights but only calls this late when he knows Pepper is out of town. Tony is sure the two of them conspire together to keep a leash on him, but he has no solid proof. “Yeah, how’d it go?”

“Oh, fine,” Rhodey says vaguely. “They basically hand you a script these days. Got a whole list of shit that’s off limits. Everything’s such a clusterfuck right now, you know, politically. Want to avoid protests or violence or whatever. That’s why they ask me to do these things now. You’d light the match and toss it on the bonfire yourself.”

Rhodey’s joking, but it hits a little too close to home and Tony can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice when he replies. “Nah, I’m a government puppet now, remember? All about toeing the line.”

Rhodey snorts. “I don’t buy that for a second.”

“It’s true. I’ve got Ross’ hand so far up my ass I can feel him tickling my tonsils,” Tony says, squinting at the webpage displayed on the monitor in front of him. “It’s weird how things turn out, you know? Me, the straight man, the suit, and Cap on the wrong side of the law. Who would have thought?”

“We did the right thing, Tony,” Rhodey says firmly. “You did the right thing.”

Tony rubs his eyes. “Did we? ‘Cause I gotta say, I have my doubts.”

“You’re human. We all have doubts. You’re not special, Tones.”

“You always say the sweetest things,” Tony says, scrolling further down the webpage.

Rhodey coughs into the lingering silence. “So, how about you? Tell me you’re not holed up in your workshop again. You need to take breaks. Watch some football. You know, relax a little?”

“That _is_ how I relax.” 

“Maybe at one time, but honestly, man, it’s getting a little mad scientist over there.” Rhodey pauses, considering. “Actually, scratch that, you crossed over that bridge a while back when you started making freaky sentient robots. Vision writes love poems to Wanda, did you know that?”

“Yeah, he’s let Pepper read a few,” Tony says distractedly. “Wanted some constructive criticism. They’re not bad, honestly. Little sappy for my taste, but I bet Wanda enjoys them.” _Wherever the hell she is._ Tony fishes for hints from Vision from time to time, but the android has so far stayed mum and Tony won’t push it.

“I don’t know what weirds me out more, the fact that a machine is in love or the fact that you’re so unfazed by how strange that shit is.”

“Let’s be real, Vision mooning after Wanda is one of the least strange things we’ve dealt with.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Rhodey sighs. “Jesus, I think we might be getting too old for this. Maybe I need to get myself a little protégé like your spider-kid. Pass the torch. What do you think?”

“I drink two entire bottles of Pepto-Bismol every week since meeting that kid,” Tony says, still squinting at the monitor. “If you think you can handle ulcers and stress-induced loose bowels on a daily basis, then go for it.”

“Yeah, never mind, I’m good,” Rhodey says. “So, what are you doing over there, anyway? You seem very distracted.”

“I’m looking at cameras.”

“Cameras?” Rhodey repeats. He mimes taking a photograph. “Like—snap-snap cameras?”

“Yep. Snap-snap cameras,” Tony replies.

He’s learned from his research that the camera the kid currently owns is pretty damn nice, actually—it would have been top-of-the-line at the time of its manufacturing, and still holds up reasonably well against some newer professional models. Definitely not something the kid scrounged up out of a dumpster or thrift store, which surprises Tony, who knows more about the Parkers’ household finances than he probably should, but then there’s a reason that Pepper is always accusing him of being a shameless snoop. He’s never bothered to ask, but he imagines that the camera was a gift for some especially big celebratory occasion—for the kid’s bar mitzvah, maybe, or for getting admitted to his nerd school. Getting braces taken off? Tony’s not exactly sure what constitutes important childhood milestones these days, or at any time, really. But he’s also not concerned with all that, because the point is—the kid’s camera is nice, but Tony can do a hell of a lot better.

“It’s a lot more complicated than I thought,” he continues. “I’ve just spent several hours going down a very zealous internet rabbit hole of mirrorless versus DSLR cameras, and I still can’t make up my mind about which is better. I think quantum physics is more straightforward than this.”

“What—are you thinking about taking up photography? Is this some kind of midlife crisis?”

“It’s more that I’m trying to prove a point to Pepper.”

“And that would be?” Rhodey asks, already sounding tired on her behalf.

“That I am a man capable of handling vast amounts of responsibility,” Tony replies.

Rhodey snorts, shaking his head. “In that case, my advice is to give up now. Don’t waste your time.”

Tony gives him a brittle smile. “I always appreciate how supportive you are, honey.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “Alright. What does photography have to do with proving this point?”

“The kid likes it. Pepper says he has a real knack for it. She’s got him doing some marketing stuff for this internship—”

“ _Marketing?_ ” Rhodey says, making a disgruntled face.

“I know. It’s appalling,” Tony agrees. “But she made some very strong points about how exploring other opportunities and interests is good for developing young minds, or something like that. I don’t know. But she sounded very convincing and she’s a helluva lot smarter than me, so I trust her.”

“Well. You’re right about that. Okay, then—you know what? I’m actually supportive of this venture,” Rhodey says, his tone cautiously optimistic. “Sounds shockingly harmless, for you. What are you looking at now? Maybe I can help.”

“Here. Read these reviews and tell me what sounds most promising,” Tony says, shooting the pages to Rhodey with a flick of his wrist. “I think I’ve got it narrowed down to these five now.”

He sits back, rubbing his hands together, a little, private smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He can already picture the kid’s face when he sees the new camera, that look of bright, startled delight. It’s a little thing, sure, but Tony’s open to even the smallest of victories these days.

***

Peter is back in Tony’s kitchen a couple days later, late in the afternoon this time. He sits on a barstool at the island, eating heaping spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar. He’s already single-handedly polished off several cartons of the Thai take-out that Tony had ordered and is making short work of the peanut butter. Tony watches him with a combination of fascination and revulsion.

“I just don’t understand how a little pipsqueak like you can put food away like this,” Tony marvels. “You eat like a linebacker. Where does it all go?”

Peter shrugs, jamming another massive spoonful of peanut butter into his mouth.

“I think crime-fighting burns a lot of calories. Especially swinging around,” he replies, the words barely intelligible around his mouthful of peanut butter.

“You’re an animal,” Tony says, reaching over to grab the peanut butter jar out of the kid’s hand. He sticks a finger into the jar, scooping out a hunk for himself.

Peter makes a noise of disgust. “I’m an animal? You just stuck your nasty dirty finger in my peanut butter jar.”

“Your peanut butter jar? You mean the jar I bought with _my_ money and put in _my_ pantry.”

“It became my jar as soon as I double-dipped my spoon. My spit and germs are all over that peanut butter.”

“So are mine now, and all my gross finger germs, too,” Tony says, sticking his finger back in the jar for another scoop. “I’m reasserting my dominance over this jar and this kitchen. I’m the boss here—at least while Pepper is away. Speaking of which,” he adds, setting the jar aside on the counter. “How’s your internship going?”

Peter shrugs. “Mm, it’s going good.”

“Yeah?” Tony says, wiping his hands clean on a dish towel. “You like it?”

“Sure, it’s a lot of fun. I’m learning a lot.”

“Yeah? Is marketing maybe something you’d want to pursue, career-wise? Take photos and video for ad campaigns or whatever?”

“I dunno,” the kid says, shrugging again. “It’s fun but I haven’t really thought a lot about it. I’m just trying to survive high school right now.”

“Yeah, high school,” Tony deadpans. “Real rough stuff. Hardest years of your life, for sure.”

Peter gives Tony an annoyed look. “Do you even remember high school? I mean, it was like a _billion_ years ago for you.”

“I didn’t really do high school, honestly—skipped right to MIT. You know, what with me being pretty much the smartest guy on the planet and all,” Tony says, while the kid rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, the most humble, too.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to talk about me, for once. I want to hear more about this internship.”

“The internship is great. I like it. Especially making videos and stuff. The guys at the advertising agency are so cool and really helpful. Seems like a lot of fun to work there. So,” Peter says, tapping his spoon against the countertop. “I dunno, maybe that is something I should consider.”

Tony nods, working hard to keep the heartbreak he’s experiencing off his face. His dearly-held dreams of watching Peter walk across the stage to accept a diploma in engineering from MIT seem suddenly tenuous. But he grits his teeth and forges ahead.

“Well, if you’re gonna continue doing that, you’re going to need the proper equipment,” Tony says, opening a drawer under the counter and pulling out a box wrapped neatly in red paper. He hands it over to Peter, who takes it very carefully, like he’s being handed a bomb or something.

“I did a ton of research, and the general consensus seems to be that this is the absolute best that money can buy,” Tony continues as Peter unwraps the box and opens it, revealing the camera Tony had picked out at the other night.

The kid looks down at the camera in the box, his face doing something very complicated, somehow managing to express both joy and dismay at the same time. He looks up at Tony a little helplessly, seemingly at a loss for words.

Tony flounders, as well. The kid’s expression is throwing him off, as is his uncharacteristic speechlessness. 

“Do you like it?” he prompts

That shakes the kid loose. “I—yes. Mr. Stark, this is—wow. Thank you. It’s just…” he looks at the box again, letting out a long breath. “It’s—a _lot._ ”

Tony thinks he gets it now.

“It’s pricey, I know,” he says. “But look who you’re talking to. I wouldn’t have gotten you this one if I didn’t know that you’re so responsible. I know you take this stuff very seriously, and you’ll take good care of that camera.”

Peter blinks up at Tony. His eyes are wet and shiny and it’s definitely not from tears of joy, considering that he looks even more pained now.

Tony stumbles again. He feels like he fucked up somehow but he can’t figure out where things went off the rails. 

“I was thinking maybe we could take it for a little spin this week,” he plows on. “You and me. I mean, if you don’t have something going on already. It’s—my dad never really showed any interest in my hobbies...I’m not sure he knew I even had any, aside from doing speedballs and wrecking his cars, so I thought…we could try it out. You know. Together.”

He’s babbling now, wondering how this situation could possibly have gotten this painfully awkward, but at least the kid no longer looks like he’s about to burst into tears. He still looks a little overwhelmed, but there’s something else in his expression, some tenderness bordering on compassion that on any other fifteen-year-old would look completely ludicrous.

“Okay,” Peter says.

“Okay?” 

“Yeah. I’d really like that, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, finally smiling.

“Good. Great,” Tony replies, relieved. “Well. I’ll pick you up tomorrow after school. I just bought a building over in your neck of the woods that’s gonna house some SI operations. I thought maybe you could take some staff photos, that sort of thing. Hey—you can even take mine. I’m pretty sure the headshot we have on our website was taken when you were still in diapers.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s easy,” Peter agrees.

“Great. Now, that camera is _brutally_ high definition, so I’m gonna need you to put your editing skills to use, too. I want to look like...ten years younger in this picture. You know—freshen me up a little. Make me look like a guy who’s never touched alcohol or hard drugs and sleeps twelve hours every night,” Tony says. “Think you can do that?”

“Yeah, yeah I think I can do that,” Peter replies, looking amused now.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Fifteen years?”

Peter makes a face, scrunching up his nose. “Mmm, that might be pushing it. I’m not a miracle worker, Mr. Stark.”

“Oof, kid. You’re gonna murder me one of these days.” Tony turns to the fridge and pulls the freezer open. “So. Now that that’s out of the way—we still have twenty minutes before Happy’s supposed to pick you up. You got room in there for ice cream? Or would that be bending biology and the laws of thermodynamics too far?”

“Hell yeah, I always have room for ice cream,” Peter says, sitting up straighter in anticipation.

“Of course you do,” Tony says, digging down into the freezer drawer past bags and bags of pancakes. He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “There are about two gallons of ice cream in here. I’m seriously curious about your limits—you know, from a scientific and health standpoint. We could do a little metabolic testing.”

“Are you asking me to eat ice cream until I puke in the name of scientific exploration?” Peter asks. “Because if you are, I am so game.”

“I knew you’d be fully onboard,” Tony says, before pausing a moment. “This goes in the vault, though. We don’t need Pepper and May knowing about this. They don’t understand and appreciate science the way we do.”

“Agreed.”

“Excellent. Alright, squirt—extremely important scientific question to initiate our research,” Tony says as he puts two containers of ice cream on the counter. “You want to start with Stark Raving Hazelnuts? Or Hunka Hulka Burning Fudge?”

***

Tony is awoken the next day by someone roughly shaking his arm.

“Boss. Boss. _Tony._ ”

Tony peels a gummy eyelid open. He’s greeted with a close-up view of the back of the sofa in his living room. He blinks at it in confusion for a moment—the last thing he remembers is having another ugly conference call with various irate government officials who took turns verbally beating his ass late into the night, and then attempting to de-stress afterward by blowing shit apart in his garage while enjoying a bottle or two of Macallan single malt.

He blinks a few more times, then rolls over onto his back with a groan.

Happy swims into focus, leaning over the couch. “What are you doing? It’s two in the afternoon. We’re supposed to go pick up the kid. Did you forget?” He leans closer, sniffing at Tony. “You smell like a distillery. Are you hungover?”

“I am _not_ hungover,” Tony says. “I have a lactose sensitivity and I had a major dairy incident yesterday afternoon.” 

He heaves himself upright. The room tilts and nausea crawls up his throat while someone starts slinging a sledgehammer against the back of his eyes. 

“I may have a touch of a hangover,” he amends. 

“For chrissakes—Pepper’s gone for a few days and you start living like a frat brother. You’re a grown ass man, Tony. Get it together,” Happy grumbles, clearing away bottles and glasses from the coffee table. “What’s the matter with you?

“What’s the matter with me?” Tony says, scrubbing a hand along the overgrown stubble covering his jaw. “Uh, let’s see...feelings of intense self-doubt and regret. A crippling fear of inadequacy. A compulsive tendency towards self-destructive behaviors. A sense of impending doom—this could all just be because of the dairy, I suppose.”

Happy glares at him. “That’s not funny. I know you too well for that to be funny. Go take a shower and clean yourself up while I make some coffee.”

Tony does as he’s told, showering and shaving and brushing his teeth so vigorously he makes himself gag over the sink. He examines the dark circles under his eyes and the sprinkle of grey hairs threaded through his goatee and at his temples, frowning and wondering when the hell did he get this old and worn down.

“You think I should shave off my beard?” he asks upon his return to the living room. 

“Don’t do anything drastic while Pepper’s out of town,” Happy replies, pouring steaming black coffee into a thermos.

“Shaving is considered something drastic?” Tony asks, making his way over to the wet bar and picking up a bottle of bourbon. “The bar really gets lowered once you hit middle-age, huh.”

“Your facial hair is part of your brand. You shave it off, and thirty seconds later every major news network will be putting out stories asking if you’re having some kind of crisis— _Jesus, Tony,_ ” Happy snaps, coming over and yanking the bottle out of Tony’s hands and handing him the thermos instead. 

“What? It’s just a little hair of the dog. Yeesh,” Tony says, sliding on his darkest sunglasses. “I don’t want to show up looking completely hungover in front of my impressionable intern. Again.”

“You should have thought about that before you drank last night,” Happy replies gruffly. “You know, for a futurist you can be very short-sighted sometimes.”

“Well. It’s not like I have a crystal ball or something,” Tony mutters a little sourly, following Happy into the elevator. 

“You need to get your priorities straight,” Happy continues to harangue once they’re in the car and on their way to Queens.

“Jesus, it’s like you’re channeling my father from beyond the grave,” Tony complains with an exaggerated full-body shudder. “You’re not the boss of me. _I’m_ the boss of _you._ I cut your paychecks. I don’t have to listen to this.”

“I’m speaking to you as your friend right now, not your employee,” Happy says. “You really need—”

Tony pushes the button to roll up the divider between the front and backseats. 

Happy glares at him in the rear view mirror as the divider rises. “You’re a child, Tony. A big, petulant child.”

Tony blows a raspberry at him as the divider closes. He flops over in the seat, covering his throbbing eyes with his hand, that sour feeling from earlier returning with a vengeance.

He perks up a little once they pick Peter up. The kid’s made an attempt to appear a bit more professional and polished than usual, dressing in a nice button down and doing something to semi-tame his hair, and Tony finds that unexpectedly charming, just pretty darn cute, and that helps distract him from the ache pounding in his temples. He wants to mercilessly tease the kid about it, but he can hear Pepper’s disembodied voice admonishing him in his mind, so he heroically resists the urge.

“You’re gonna like this new building,” Tony rambles to Peter. “Just finished renovating it. Our in-house legal team has already set up shop, and Pepper’s moving some of our Science and Tech division over there in the next few weeks. Maybe you’ll get a chance to intern there at some point. Whole building runs one-hundred-percent on clean energy, zero admissions. We’ll be donating surplus energy production to schools in low-income areas.” 

He pauses, and then adds, a little bitterly, “I’ll admit that’s not _entirely_ altruistic. It’s also meant to help appease our clients and shareholders after my involvement in the whole Accords debacle—rehab my image or whatever. Public trust in the Avengers—what’s left of us—is at an all-time low. I don’t know, my publicists cook these things up. We’re getting a big tax break, too, which _really_ reeks of corporate self-interest, but that’s the current state of capitalism in this great nation, kiddo, so what are you gonna do?”

“It’s still really nice that you’re doing that, though,” Peter says generously, fiddling with his camera.

Which is not, Tony now notices, the brand new camera he’s just gifted the kid, but the old model Peter had been using.

“Where’s your new camera?” he asks.

Peter looks up at him. “Huh?”

“The new camera I got you yesterday,” Tony says. “I thought the whole point of this trip was for you to try it out. Tell me it hasn’t suffered some terrible misfortune already. You’ve barely had it out of the box.”

The kid looks at the camera in his lap, his face gone red. “Oh. No, it’s fine. It’s at home. I was gonna bring it, but…then I was thinking that this camera would be fine if I’m just taking some stills and portraits and stuff. I figured I could keep the new camera in reserve until this one breaks or something.”

“You’re not going to use the new camera till this one breaks?” Tony repeats, confused. “Who thinks like that?”

“Poor people,” the kid answers, with a look on his face like that’s obvious.

“Okay, but—why not use the new, nicer camera and keep the old beat up one as a backup?” Tony says. “I mean, kid, you have some hefty financial backing in your corner. If the new camera breaks, I’ll get you another one, no questions asked. Christ, I’ll get you a hundred new cameras.”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, I don’t _have_ to. That’s the point. I _want_ to,” Tony says, starting to get a little frustrated. The kid is usually an open book, but right now Tony feels like he’s trying to read ancient Babylonian or something. He presses a knuckle into his left eye, where the dull pounding has rapidly evolved into a steady, knife-like jabbing through the back of his skull.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter starts, “I’m really grateful—”

Tony cuts him off. “I’m not implying that you’re not. You don’t owe me gratitude. You don’t owe me anything. That’s not what I’m after here. I’m—”

He stops and takes a breath, because he can hear the frustration he’s feeling starting to leech into his voice and the kid is wilting a little in his seat. “I’m just a bit… _confused,_ is all, about why you’re insisting on using a camera that was probably purchased back when you still needed someone to help you tie your shoes.”

The kid shrugs. “I dunno…I like this camera. It’s just what I’m comfortable with, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. Okay. Well, this internship thing is supposed to get you out of your comfort zone a little. It’s good to stretch yourself. That’s how you grow as a person and a professional—right?”

“Um. Yes, sir, I guess so.”

“It’s how you build up your self-confidence, too,” Tony continues as he rolls down his window. “Sometimes you just gotta square your jaw and do some things that make you uncomfortable, and then you’ll realize, hey, that wasn’t so bad. And next time you have to do it, it’s easier. Right?”

“…Yeah,” Peter agrees, a bit hesitantly.

“It’s hard, though. Maybe even scary sometimes. I get it. I was a scrawny little nerd once, too. Sometimes you need a little push. You know how some birds teach their chicks to fly?” Tony asks, leaning towards Peter. “They toss them out of the nest. Fly or die.”

Peter looks from Tony to the car door and back again, a faint frown line appearing between his brows. “Are you gonna throw me out of this moving car or something?”

“Not you,” Tony says, snatching the camera out of the kid’s hands and tossing it out of the open window before Peter can react. 

“There. No more excuses,” Tony says, sitting back with a smugly satisfied smile. “We’ll go back and get the other camera, alright?”

It’s the absolute silence that clues him into the fact that something has gone very badly awry with his little stunt. He expects some kind of verbal reaction—the kid, like Tony, never shuts the hell up—but there’s nothing. No words of shock or protest, not even an indignant squawk.

Tony shoots the kid a look. Peter is staring back at him, his eyes as huge and round as moons and his face completely drained of color. 

It takes Tony exactly two seconds to realize that he’s fucked up in some monumental fashion.

“Kid, you alright?” he asks.

“That…that was my uncle’s camera,” Peter says slowly.

Tony feels like a gulch a mile deep has just opened underneath him.

“You’re kidding…” he says, half-pleading, even though he can tell just by looking at Peter that the kid is dead serious. “Tell me right now this is one of those pranks you play to make me feel like a shit-head.”

Peter shakes his head, his hands coming up to grab fistfuls of his shirt, still looking completely stunned. He swallows hard. “Sorry…I think I’m gonna throw up, or....or pass out maybe.”

Tony reaches over and puts a hand on the back of Peter’s neck, pushing his head down towards his knees.

“Okay, deep breaths. Don’t freak out,” he says. The kid is shaking under his hand. 

“That didn’t just happen, right?” Peter asks from his hunched over position. There’s a waver in his voice that suggests he’s on the edge of tears. “I mean—this is like, just a nightmare or something, right? Please tell me that didn’t just happen.”

“Peter, buddy, I had no idea,” Tony says, like that’s a good excuse for what he just did. He’s feeling more than a little nauseated himself, now, and it has nothing to do with his hangover.

Peter lifts his head to look up at him, his eyes shining. “Me and Ben…that was like our thing, you know? Taking pictures together with that camera. He told me I could use it because I’m so responsible, and he knew I would take really good care of it. And I did, Mr. Stark. I was always so careful with it...”

Tony has to fight off the urge to throw himself out of the car, too. 

“Oh, kid,” he says, feeling increasingly desperate as he watches Peter struggle to hold it together. “I’m gonna—I’ll fix this, alright? So you don’t need to be upset, because I’m going to fix this. You know I’m good at fixing things, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Peter agrees, nodding, before his face crumples and a shaky hiccuping sob escapes him, a little wounded animal sound of raw grief.

Tony leans forward and starts frantically rapping his knuckles on the divider separating them from the front of the car.

Happy rolls the divider down, glowering at Tony in the rear view mirror. “What’s that? Why’re you pounding on the glass like that? I swear, if one of you threw up in the back—”

“Pull over,” Tony says sharply.

“In this traffic?”

“Pull over _right now,_ or you’re gonna be the head of security at the local shopping mall.”

Happy shoots Tony another scowl at the threat but does as he’s told, grumbling under his breath as he pulls the car over.

“Stay right here,” Tony tells Peter, who is making a valiant but obviously doomed effort to hold back more tears. “Don’t move.”

He scrambles out of his seatbelt and practically kicks the door open, bursting out of the car and ignoring the questions Happy shouts after him as he starts jogging back towards the intersection. He taps the frame of his sunglasses.

“FRIDAY, wake up,” he demands, weaving around the pedestrians crowding the sidewalk. “I need you to reroute traffic away from the intersection. Like, right this very minute.”

 _“You got it,”_ the A.I. affirms.

“Great. Now help me find this camera,” Tony says, racing into the street the second traffic clears while praying to every and any higher power that may exist that the camera was spared from the vehicles driving through the intersection.

_“Over there, boss—there’s a piece by the manhole cover.”_

“A piece?” Tony repeats, his heart sinking. He spots the camera then, or at least a hunk of cracked plastic and twisted wires that had once been a part of a camera. More pieces are scattered in a wide radius across the asphalt, obliterated under the tires of passing cars.

For a brief but serious moment, Tony considers just lying down in the road and letting himself be pancaked by a car, too. Instead, he gets down on his hands and knees and starts collecting the camera fragments, carefully cradling them in his palm as he slowly crawls his way across the warm asphalt.

“What the hell are you doing?” Happy pants as he comes jogging up behind Tony. “Tony—what’s going on? Are you having a mental breakdown right now?”

“No, you’re about two minutes too late to have witnessed my moment of psychosis,” Tony replies, shuffling on hands and knees over to collect more mangled remains. “This right here is cold, sober sanity.”

Happy doesn’t look the least bit convinced of Tony’s sanity. “Seriously, what’s happening? The kid’s crying in the back of the car, and you’re out here crawling around picking up garbage off the street like you’ve lost your goddamn mind. Tony—what the fuck are you doing?” 

“I’m collecting the shattered remains of the kid’s cherished childhood memories with his dead uncle, obviously—the ones I just callously threw out of the car window like trash, like I’m some kind of _monster,_ ” Tony replies a little raggedly, scraping up more pieces of the camera as a chorus of honking and shouted expletives rises up around him. FRIDAY’s attempts to reroute traffic have not, apparently, been entirely successful. 

“Jesus, Tony…you need to think about your public image right now…this shit with the Accords—”

“ _Fuck_ the Accords. _Fuck_ my public image. None of that bullshit matters,” Tony says, crawling over to collect another camera piece.

“Do I need to call Pepper?” Happy asks with genuine concern, taking off his suit jacket and holding it open in front of Tony’s head in a feeble attempt to shield his boss from the growing throng of curious onlookers who have finally realized that the well-dressed lunatic crawling on all fours in the middle of the intersection is not some random deranged citizen but Iron Man himself. 

Tony rips the jacket out of Happy’s hands and throws it at him. “I want you to get your ass back in the car with the kid. I want you to take him back to his apartment and stay there with him until May gets home. Tell her I’m a giant fucking idiot and I screwed up. She’ll understand.”

Happy hesitates, but something murderously unhinged must be showing in Tony’s face because he grudgingly slings his jacket over his shoulder and nods.

“Fine,” Happy says reluctantly. “I’ll send a car to pick you up. Try to pull yourself together before the news vans show up, and maybe next time have your breakdown somewhere private. And Tony, for the love of god—get some _help._ ”

“Why are you still here?” Tony snaps, waving him away irritably and turning his attention back to picking up the camera’s mutilated remains. 

“FRI, what do you know about repairing cameras?” he mutters as he gathers up shards of the shattered lens, ignoring the jeers of the onlookers.

_“Not much, but I’d be happy to learn.”_

“Great. Hit the books hard.” Tony looks down at the mess of crumpled parts cupped in his hands, trying to beat back waves of despair and regret. “Tell me honestly, doc—what are the odds of a successful resuscitation?”

_“Exceptionally poor, boss. I believe the appropriate jargon for this situation is ‘FUBAR’.”_

“Yeah, I’d concur with that diagnosis,” Tony sighs.

***

When Happy calls later that evening, Tony is somewhere around the halfway mark on his first bottle of Scotch, because the ruts in the road of self-loathing run deep.

“You know, you can be a real piece of shit sometimes,” Happy growls into the phone when Tony answers.

“Yeah, I know,” Tony agrees, pinching the bridge of his nose and swirling the amber dregs around the bottom of his tumbler. “How did May take it?”

“She didn’t. The kid wouldn’t tell her what happened and he wouldn’t let me say anything either, because even though you’re the biggest asshole on the planet he still decides to protect you. You don’t deserve him, honestly.”

“I know,” Tony says again, drowning the sting with another swallow of whisky.

There’s a pause. Then Happy adds, gruffly, “I didn’t mean that. I spoke out of anger. I don’t want you to take that to heart.”

“It’s fine. You’re like the court jester around here. You’re supposed to lay the hard truths down on me.”

“Then I stand by what I said about you being an asshole.”

“Thanks, Hap.”

There’s another pause on the other end of the call, and then Happy speaks again, more gently this time. “You know you need to fix this."

“Of course I’m gonna fix this. I’m very good at rectifying my mistakes. I’ve had a lot of practice. I’ll make it up to him, I’ll—I don’t know, buy him a private island,” Tony mutters, filling the tumbler again. “Ten miles of private beach sounds like fair compensation for inflicting emotional trauma on a grieving child, right?”

“I don’t think the kid wants you to buy him an island, Tony. Maybe start with an apology and go from there.”

“Yeah, I’ve been trying. He’s understandably ignoring my calls and texts.” If Tony were more sober, he might be embarrassed by how hurt he is that a fifteen-year-old kid is ghosting him, but he’s currently very un-sober and therefore allows himself to wallow in that hurt, like the big petulant child Happy had accused him of being.

“It’s alright,” he continues, without much confidence. “I can figure this out.”

He ends the call with Happy, then works his way through the rest of the bottle, drifting down to the lab at some point. He slouches at a workbench, squinting bleary-eyed at the mess of data on his monitor. He notices that the kid’s suit is online, despite the fact that it’s past the curfew Tony knows May’s set for him. The GPS tracker places him somewhere way out in Brooklyn, suggesting he has no plans to go home anytime soon. A little blinking icon in the corner of the screen indicates he’s low on web fluid.

Tony considers calling him again. He can force it through while the kid’s in the suit. But the one brain cell he hasn’t pickled with alcohol reminds him that calling your fifteen-year-old mentee while you’re drunk as a skunk is probably ill-advised at best and highly irresponsible at worst.

 _Watch your web fluid. You're running low,_ he texts Peter instead.

 _I’ll make you more,_ he adds after a minute. _I’ve only got Dum-E here to assist, so we might blow up the lab and ourselves in the process. This could be the last message you ever receive from me._

He waits. Then waits a little longer. There’s no response from Peter.

“You know, this feels a little unfair,” Tony tells Dum-E as he pulls chemicals from the cabinet at the rear of the lab. “I used to give the silent treatment to my old man when I was pissed at him, too, and it _never_ worked on him like this. I think he enjoyed it, even. Does that make me a better or worse person?”

Dum-E just beeps a little sadly, waving its arm back and forth.

“Boy, you guys are hard on me,” Tony says, sloppily measuring out potassium carbonate. “Did I teach you to do that?”

 _“Boss, your hand,”_ FRIDAY alerts him a few minutes later. It might just be Tony’s imagination, but the A.I. sounds almost embarrassed for him.

Tony turns his swimming attention to his right hand, the one that had been holding a glass beaker a moment before. The beaker is gone now, his hand curled around empty air. His entire palm is coated with blood, the flesh studded with tiny shards of glass that glitter wetly in the overhead lights.

“Well, shit,” Tony says, having the presence of mind to at least raise his injured hand above his shoulder in order to slow the bleeding. It throbs now in hot waves of pain, like the act of visually perceiving the injury has made it real.

“Shit,” Tony says again, watching blood run in inky rivulets down his wrist to stain the cuff of his shirt. He stumbles to the bathroom and wraps his hand in a towel, then sits on the toilet seat and watches the bloodstain spread through the fabric. He switches the towel out for another, grimacing in pain.

The tiny part of his brain still clinging to sober reasoning feebly suggests that he maybe— _probably_ —should seek out some help as he woozily watches the bloodstain rapidly spread through the new towel. He briefly considers his very short list of viable options for aid, mentally scratching off names one-by-one until he lands on the only available person.

“Shit,” he says once more, standing up on wobbly legs. “Hey, FRI? I need a ride over to Queens.”

***

FRIDAY gets him to his destination safely, depositing him at the rear entrance to the apartment building. He staggers down a dimly lit, blessedly empty hallway to the mildew-scented elevator, slumping against the wall as the elevator makes its slow, shuddering ascent, his injured hand throbbing in time to his heartbeat.

He gets off on the seventh floor and wanders down another hallway, stepping over the outstretched legs of a teenage girl who sits on the floor, her face buried in her phone, oblivious of her proximity to one of the few remaining Avengers.

Tony reaches the apartment he’s seeking and raps on the door with his good hand.

It opens a minute later, and May appears on the other side in her pajamas and a cardigan, blinking up at him. For a second her face is blank, like she doesn’t even recognize him, and then it crumples in anguish. She sags against the door frame. 

“Oh my god,” she breathes out, her eyes filling with tears as she presses a shaking hand to her mouth. “Oh my god!”

It takes Tony’s drunk, pain-hazed brain a moment to process what is happening, and when it hits him he immediately feels like a complete prick.

“Oh, Christ,” he says, reaching out to grasp May’s shoulder with his uninjured hand. “May, I’m not…I’m not here about Peter. I mean, I am. Sort of. But not because of— _that._ ”

May stares up at him with wide, shining eyes and then straightens, shrugging out from under his hand. “W-what?”

“He’s fine, May. Peter’s fine.”

“What the fuck?” she says helplessly, her voice shaking as she clutches fistfuls of her sweater and twists it in her hands, the exact same way Peter does when he’s anxious or upset, and Tony feels an almost Pavlovian rush of protectiveness.

“I’m an idiot,” he says, his hand still hovering awkwardly between them. “I should have called first.”

May stares at him for a moment longer. Then her face hardens and she punches him, driving her small fist into his chest hard enough to make him stagger back a step.

“You stupid asshole!” she cries, tears running down her cheeks. “You can’t do that to me! You can’t show up here in the middle of the night when my kid is out there doing god only knows what and just…and just…”

She sobs once, brokenly, turning away from him.

“You’re right, you’re so, so right,” Tony soothes, trying to calm her down before her neighbors hear the commotion and come out to find a drunk, bleeding Tony Stark standing in the hallway harassing their widowed single mother neighbor. He’s regretting his decision to come out here now, like he hasn’t put this woman through enough already. “I’m an asshole, and I apologize. I’ve had…a few drinks and wasn’t thinking.”

“What are you doing here?” May asks, swiping angrily at her wet cheeks. “Besides scaring the shit outta me.”

Tony holds up his injured arm wrapped in a bloody towel, feeling incredibly stupid now, ashamed to be intruding like this. “I’d hoped to take advantage of your nursing skills.”

May looks from his face to his arm, her mouth a thin line, breathing hard through her nose. Then she briefly presses a hand to her forehead before stepping back, motioning to Tony. “Come in and let me see.”

Tony gratefully steps inside. May shuts the door behind him and then ushers him over to the to the kitchen table. 

“Sit down and let me get my stuff.”

Tony slides into a chair, grimacing as he gingerly lays his arm on the table. May’s terror has had a sobering effect on him, and as the alcohol-induced haziness fades the pain in his hand blossoms into an excruciating throb. 

“Don’t you have people to do this for you?” May asks as she returns with a first aid kit.

“Absolutely, but right now I’d prefer not to let too many people know that I’m a sloppy drunk,” Tony says, wincing as May carefully unwraps the towel. “I’m sorta clinging by my fingertips these days to the crumbling illusion that I am a competent man worthy of public trust.”

“What about, you know— _friends?_ ” May asks as she wipes a pair of tweezers down with rubbing alcohol.

Tony smiles at her, tilting his head. “Are we not friends, May?”

“After tonight? Debatable,” May says as she leans over Tony’s hand and starts carefully pulling out the tiny shards of glass embedded in his palm. “Pepper can’t do this? Surely she’s had to patch you up before. I know she’s stitched up Peter,” she adds with a pointed look at Tony. “She does a pretty good job. Steady hands. I imagine she’s had practice.”

“She’s on a business trip in Norway. Rhodey’s holding down the fort upstate. Happy’s…not happy with me at the moment. He won’t admit it, but he has a giant soft spot for the kid, and I…well. I fucked up there, too,” Tony replies. “So I guess that pretty much leaves you.” His mouth twists into a humorless smile. “I’m a little short on trusted friends these days, if you haven’t been keeping up with the news over the past year. At least you know what you’re doing.”

May’s expression softens a little. “So you gonna tell me what happened?”

“Drank a fantastic bottle of Laphroaig seventeen-year-old single malt and then strangled a glass beaker to death,” Tony replies. “Didn’t like the way it was looking at me."

“Mmm,” May hums, plucking out another piece of glass. “Must have been a pretty bad fight. Do you get shit-faced and belligerent in front of my kid when he’s staying at your place?”

“Absolutely not. That would be highly irresponsible. No, I wait till he’s tucked away safe in bed before I hit the bottle hard. Jesus _fuck!_ ” Tony yelps as May digs the tweezers into his hand. “Christ, May, I’m kidding.”

“You better be if you ever want to see Peter again.”

“You know,” Tony says in a low voice, a lopsided smile on his face, “you’re positively radiant when you’re angry.”

May shoots him a deadly glare. “Tony Stark, I will not hesitate to let you bleed to death on my kitchen floor, I swear to god.”

“Wouldn’t recommend it. The media frenzy would seriously cramp your life.”

“Might still be worth it, honestly.” May glances at him over the rims of her glasses. “You wanna talk about it for real? I have some training regarding this stuff. Or I can give you the number for a substance abuse counselor…”

Tony waves his good hand dismissively. “It’s just a little slip up.”

“Breaking a glass in your hand is a little slip up, huh,” May deadpans. “Hate to see what a big slip up looks like.” She clears her throat. “So, how often do these ‘slip ups’ happen? Are we talking nightly, or weekly, or—”

“God, no,” Tony says quickly. “It isn’t like that.”

“Really?” May asks, fixing him with another piercing look.

“It’s not a problem,” Tony insists.

May sighs as she sets aside the tweezers and pours rubbing alcohol over a cotton ball. “You know what? For me, it really is a problem. I’m supposed to trust you to keep an eye on my kid while he’s out there putting himself in danger every night, and now all I’m gonna be thinking about is whether or not you got your head screwed on straight enough to do your job. I have enough to keep me awake at night without worrying about this, too.”

She dabs at his lacerated palm with the cotton ball, but the sting of the alcohol barely registers against the far harsher hurt of her rebuke.

“You know I wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize Peter’s safety,” Tony says, his fingers twitching in her grasp. “You know that, May. I have all sorts of protocols in place —”

She cuts him off with a shake of her head, her lips pursed. “Tony, it’s not about protocols, or suits of armor, or whatever other million dollar gadget you invented. This is about me trusting you with my whole world and expecting you to honor that trust.”

Tony looks down at his mangled limb on the table, at the oozing cuts criss-crossing his palm, the way his hand trembles in hers, feeling the pressure of another failure bearing down on his shoulders. 

“I let Peter keep that suit you made him, and I let him spend weekends upstate just about any time you want. I know the two of you keep all kinds of crazy shit secret from me, and I never pry,” May continues, swabbing at the lacerations on his hands almost aggressively. “All I want is to know that I can trust you to keep him safe, and if I can’t do that then maybe I gotta rethink this whole thing.”

Something in Tony’s chest collapses under the weight of those words. He grasps the edge of the table with his good hand because he feels untethered, like this cramped apartment has opened up into something vast and terrifying.

“Don’t take this from me,” he pleads softly, gripped with the sudden dread that yet another thing he’s tried to nurture and build might come unraveled at his own doing. “Please. I know I’m pretty far from anyone you’d want having an influence on your kid, but I don’t have a lot of good things in my life these days. I know I’m putting a lot on you both, I know I’m fucking it up a lot of the time, but…”

He stops, embarrassed by the rawness of his desperation, how exposed he’s left himself. Ashamed of how he has forced himself into this woman’s life and made her deal with all his messy complications.

“Oh, Tony,” May murmurs, sounding tired and pained. For a moment she does nothing but hold his hand in both of hers, gripping it tightly. Then she seems to pull herself together, clearing her throat and pulling out a roll of gauze, her movements sure and purposeful as she starts bandaging his hand. “Okay. Alright. So, maybe let’s talk about working on this, then, if we’re going to keep things going as they are. Figure out healthier ways of going about it.”

“Yeah, it…doesn’t come easily to me,” Tony explains slowly. “The whole asking for help thing.”

May gives him another small smile, reaching across to pat him lightly on the cheek. “Peter’s the same way. I think it’s built into you hero types. You get so focused on saving everyone else you forget about saving yourselves. But, hey, you could have stayed home and done a shit job patching yourself up, but you came here instead, didn’t you? That’s a start.” She leans back. “Here, I’m finished. Let me get you an ice pack to help with the swelling and a cup of coffee to clear your head before I kick your sorry ass out.” 

She gets him that ice pack and makes him a cup of instant coffee. It’s gritty and tastes like bitter cardboard but it does its job of helping to clear his head, so he drinks it anyway.

“You wanna talk about it, now that you’re a little more sober?” May asks as she wipes the table down. 

“It’s just...well, it’s your kid,” Tony says.

“Oh, so my kid is driving you to drink,” May says, a little sardonically, sitting down across from him again. “I knew something had happened between the two of you when I came home to find him and Happy all bent out of shape, but of course he wouldn’t tell me why. What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Tony assures her. “It was me. I did something… _astoundingly_ idiotic and selfish, even for me.”

“Uh-huh,” May says, leaning forward with an expectant look. “Lay it on me. I really can’t wait to hear this.”

“Yeah, alright...” Tony grimaces, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So I bought him this new camera, to help him out with this internship Pepper’s got him doing—”

“The marketing one,” May pipes up. “He’s really enjoying that.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me. Anyway—I got this new camera, I’m feeling really great about it, right? I thought it could be like...I don’t fucking know, a—bonding opportunity or whatever. Christ, I’m trying, May, I really am...But when I pick him up, he’s got the old camera with him instead. _Ben’s_ camera—I didn’t know that at the time, not that that excuses what comes next, but…it bothered me, okay? So I chucked it. Threw it out the car window.”

“You chucked it,” May repeats, looking at him over the top of her glasses. “You threw my husband’s camera out of the car. In front of Peter.”

“I did, May,” Tony confirms. “I fucking did. I snatched that camera out of your sweet, trusting child’s hands, and I chucked it out of the window into a busy intersection, where it was then crushed into thousands of pieces by oncoming traffic.”

May sits back, pressing a hand to her mouth and looking so deeply pained that Tony is forced to avert his eyes back to the table. 

Then, from behind her palm, she lets out a muffled laugh.

Tony looks up and blinks at her, incredulous. “Are you...are you _laughing_ right now?”

May shakes her head before another giggle escapes her. 

“Oh, god. I’m sorry, but that is just— _so bad,_ ” she says, not even bothering to try to smother her amusement at this point, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “So, so bad.”

“I’m glad you find the fact that I traumatized your kid so funny,” Tony says sourly. “Seriously, you should have seen him, May. He was absolutely devastated. He didn’t even look that upset the time I took his suit. I’d rather be gelded with a rusty nail clipper than ever see that look on his face again. It was— _heartbreaking._ ”

“I know, I know,” May replies, wiping her eyes and taking a few deep breaths to collect herself a little. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just—what were you even thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking, obviously. I was a full grown man taking out my frustrations with all the other bullshit in my life on a little kid, because I’m a jerk—a drunk, bullying jerk, and he’s a soft target,” Tony freely admits, beyond shame at this point. “It was like—I was possessed by my dad’s ghost or something. He was real big on that tough-love stuff—which is just code for being a stone-cold prick. That shit never worked on me and I sure as hell know it’s not gonna work on a kid like Peter, and…I just...I fucked up, May. That’s all I can say. I’m a fuck up, and I regret it.”

“Oh, Tony,” May says again, sounding almost affectionate this time, a sympathetic smile playing around her mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an idiot. We both know that, but now I gotta fix it.” Tony takes a breath, flexing his stiff fingers in their bandages. “He’s not answering my calls or texts, so—what do I do to avoid further fucking this situation up? Do I...am I supposed to give him space, or…you’re the expert here.”

“Yeah, there’s no such thing as experts when it comes to this parenting thing, so just get rid of that notion entirely. You’re life will be so much easier once you do, believe me,” May says. “And you and Peter will be alright. You can believe me about that, too. He’s very resilient and very forgiving.”

“I’ll talk to him, alright?,” she adds, smiling again, before her expression hardens and she points a threatening finger at Tony's face. “But you gotta promise me right now—you’re gonna work on this. I know Pepper is a long-suffering saint who puts up with a lot of your bullshit, but you’re not gonna get any wiggle room with me, sweetheart. I’ll dump your ass so fast you’ll get whiplash. It’s my way or the highway around here, got it?”

“Yeah, I can accept that,” Tony agrees, feeling both relieved and chastened.

May stands up. “Good. Now go home, take a shower, and go to bed. You stink and you look like shit. You need me to call you a cab?”

“No, thank you. The car is self-driving.”

May shakes her head. “God, you really are living in the future. How’s the view from there?”

“These day? A little foggy,” Tony says, following her to the door.

She stops there a moment, fixing the collar of his shirt. She smooths her hands over his shoulders, squeezing them briefly. “You don’t have to be perfect. No one’s asking you to be perfect. We all make mistakes.”

“Yeah, that’s a nice sentiment, but when guys like me fuck up, the consequences are usually a lot bigger,” Tony says.

“Okay, so then you try to fix it, as best you can. That’s the easy part,” May says, shrugging. “And then you forgive yourself. And that’s harder, but you just gotta practice it, like anything else.”

She squeezes his shoulders again, looking him straight in the eye. “You’re a selfish, messy, arrogant prick,” she tells him, “and you’re a good man. I wouldn’t let my kid anywhere near you if I didn’t believe that with my whole heart.”

“Thanks, May,” Tony says, the words coming out a little thick past the tightness in his throat. 

“You’re welcome.” She lets him go. “Now go home. Go to bed. Call Pepper in the morning.”

***

Tony does as he was told for once, except for the last part—Pepper calls him from Norway around mid-morning while he’s still lying in bed before he has a chance to call her first.

“I’ve had a very interesting day today,” Pepper tells him. “I woke up to about a hundred emails and voicemails from board members who seemed to be very concerned that you had finally gone off the deep end—”

“ _Finally?_ " Tony interjects. "Why do they think it’s so inevitable?”

“And panicking over the fact that SI stock was plunging. Rumiko even called,” Pepper continues, ignoring Tony’s interruption. 

“Rumiko called? Oh boy, things must be dire if Ru is calling. I thought she was immune to my antics by this point.”

“Rumiko called, because she had hordes of reporters showing up at the Stark-Fujikawa office in Tokyo asking about you,” Pepper confirms. “And then I see about a hundred different news alerts—all regarding you. So I open one up, and what do I see?”

“I’m assuming from your restrained tone that it wasn’t anything about my philanthropic contributions over the past year.”

“No, Tony. It was a video. Of you, in a very nice Berluti suit, crawling around on all fours on the ground in one of the busiest intersections in Queens, holding up rush hour traffic. And while this is certainly not the oddest thing I’ve ever witnessed you do, I am very curious as to _why_ you were doing it.”

“Yeah, well, it was kind of your fault, actually,” Tony tells her.

“ _My_ fault?”

“Okay—not directly your fault,” Tony swiftly amends. “It’s one-hundred-percent my fault, but I was trying to follow your advice. You know, in regards to the marketing internship you have the kid doing, and what you said about supporting his other interests.”

“And that was why you were crawling around on the ground in broad daylight in front of dozens and dozens of onlookers? Because you were supporting Peter’s interests?”

“No. I was crawling around on the ground in broad daylight because I had spectacularly failed at supporting his interests. Complete, totally catastrophic levels of failure,” Tony explains. “But you know, in hindsight, it was actually a moment of extreme clarity. One of those lightning flashes in the cave kind of thing. Or maybe it’s better described as a kick-in-the-ass moment. Whatever.”

“Mm-hm. So everything’s alright, then?” Pepper asks, in her unbelievably understanding way.

“Yeah. I’m fixing it,” Tony says. “Or I’m at least trying to make it better. I’m—there are a lot of things that I’m going to try to do better at. And I’m gonna get some help this time—and I don't mean any more of that eat, pray, love, gluten-free, Oprah's Super Soul Sunday crap. I'm talking about real, professional help. So. If you could just bear with me a little longer—”

“Tony. Do you even have to ask? I’ve been bearing with you in some capacity for almost twenty years now,” Pepper says, sounding both tender and amused. “There have been a lot of highs and some very low lows in those two decades, but I’ve always been mostly very happy to bear with you. I’ve certainly never regretted it.”

Tony wonders if it’s even possible to love a person as much as he loves this woman. “Well. That’s pretty much my main goal in life now—making sure you never regret being with me. And—thank you. I feel like I sometimes don’t tell you that enough. But I feel it, everyday. Everything I am, everything I’ve become—all the good parts, I mean—are because of you.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” Pepper says. “But I’m glad if I’ve helped. I’m proud of you, honey.”

***

May must work her magic, because later that day Peter shows up at Tony's place, standing just inside the doorway to the lab, awkwardly shifting his weight back and forth on his feet.

Tony spins his chair around to face him. The kid’s being uncharacteristically quiet and shy, his eyes turned down towards the scuffed toes of his sneakers. But he’s here in person, which is about as good a start as Tony could hope for.

“Hey. I, um...I ran out of web fluid,” Peter says. “I saw your text, saying that you were gonna make some more?”

“I sure did. But first things first—come here,” Tony says, motioning Peter over. 

The kid makes his way across the lab like he’s heading for the gallows, his mouth a grim, tight line and his eyes still downcast. He stops in front of Tony, waiting.

Tony reaches up and holds him by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry about breaking your camera,” he tells him. “Really, deeply sorry. That was a dick move, throwing it out the car window like that. I’m a jerk, and I feel terrible about it.”

“It’s okay. It was just a camera,” Peter says. “I don’t even know why I got so upset. I’m actually _really_ super embarrassed about it now—like, the whole freaking out and crying in front of you thing...I kinda want to die every time I think about it, so if we can just like, move on and never talk about it again for as long as either of us live, that would be great.”

“Is that why you were avoiding my calls and texts?” Tony asks, gently squeezing his shoulders. “‘Cause you were embarrassed?”

Peter nods, still staring down at his shoes. “Yeah. Sorry. You got me this crazy nice camera, and I was so dumb and weird about it, because...I dunno. It was really stupid. Sorry.”

“Hey,” Tony says, waiting for Peter to reluctantly look up and make eye contact before continuing. “My dad had these cufflinks that my mom got him for their first wedding anniversary. He wore them pretty much every day after that. I’ve got those cufflinks in a safe in my bedroom closet now. If some smug asshole broke into that safe and flushed those cufflinks down the toilet or something, I’d be really hurt and upset—and I didn’t even get along with my dad. So it’s not stupid. Not even a little bit. Okay?”

Peter nods, sniffing. “Okay.”

“And here’s the other thing,” Tony adds, leaning closer to him. “You’ll never hear me admit to this ever again, but I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to this whole mentoring thing. Not a fucking clue. I’m making it all up as I go—I know that’s extremely hard to believe, but it’s true.”

Peter lets out a little huff of laughter at that. “I think you’re doing okay, Mr. Stark. Really.”

“You’re too kind. So I know this is going to hard for you, but I’ve admitted now that I don’t know what I’m doing, so if I’m ever...overstepping some boundary, please feel free to tell me to fuck right off,” Tony says. “I know your uncle Ben left behind some pretty gigantic shoes, and my grubby little cloven hooves don’t belong anywhere near them, so don’t let me blunder my way into any sacred spaces, okay? If the photography thing is something special between you and your uncle that you don’t want me dicking around in, you just tell me. I won’t be offended, I promise.”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Peter says, that funny look of compassion back on his face. “It was just—you were talking about your dad and stuff, and I felt like...you really needed this or something. And, uh...I know you’re really busy with important stuff, so like...when you want to spend time with me, I just...I really appreciate it. So. It was okay. Really.”

Tony squeezes his shoulders again. “Okay, you keep talking like that, and I’m gonna start crying in front of you. And that really _will_ be embarrassing. I’m a very ugly crier—I could upstage Claire Danes’ cry face.”

“I don’t believe that,” Peter says, smiling.

“It’s true. You don’t want to witness that,” Tony insists. He pauses a moment, looking at the kid. “You know I always time for you, right? And if I don’t have time, I’m very, very happy to clear my schedule for you.”

“Okay,” the kid says, still sounding a little unconvinced. But that’s alright, Tony thinks. He’s going to work on that, too.

“Alright. Let’s move on and embark on part two of the apology tour, then,” Tony says, reaching into the desk drawer for another wrapped box. He hands it over to Peter, who has the same cautious expression he did the last time Tony gave him a gift. 

But the wariness melts away as he unwraps the box.

“Oh, wow,” Peter says as he opens the box and pulls out his old camera, intact once more, a slow smile lighting up his face as he examines it. “You fixed it. You can’t even tell it got smashed.”

“I gotta be completely honest with you here—a lot of the more delicate inner mechanisms weren’t salvageable. It would have taken an act of black magic techno-necromancy beyond even my ability in order to resurrect them. So I had to replace them, and I figured if I was gonna replace them, I might as well put all the bells and whistles in.” Tony taps the camera with a finger. “That’s basically a top-of-the-line camera wrapped in a sentimental shell. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect, Mr. Stark, thank you,” Peter replies, resting his fingers in the worn indents on the rubber grip, left behind by a bigger hand than his own. He looks up at Tony, biting his lip and smiling. “I still can’t believe you crawled around on the street like that to pick up the pieces. There are videos all over the internet with millions and millions of views. People have been making all kinds of edits with music and stuff. My friends are all sharing them.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not even in the top ten most embarrassing things I’ve done that have been caught on camera. If becoming a meme to be mocked among teenagers is my punishment for that stunt, then I feel like I’m getting off lightly,” Tony says. He pauses for a moment, squinting at Peter. “Did you make one?”

“Yeah, of course I did.”

“Of course. It’s too much to expect loyalty from my own protege.” Tony waves a hand at him. “Alright, lemme see it.”

Peter finds the video and then hands his phone over.

“I made it look like you’re crawling up the side of a building,” he explains as the video plays. “You know, like you’re Spider-Man.”

“That’s actually very sweet. Really—I’m honestly flattered,” Tony says, unable to help smiling as he watches the video play on a loop. “I wish I was half as good a guy as Spider-Man.”

“I think you’re a pretty good guy,” Peter says earnestly.

“I sometimes think you were manufactured in a lab and programmed to display optimal kindness so the rest of us would be reminded of what huge assholes we really are whenever we’re around you, except that would be unfair to your aunt and uncle. They’ve obviously put a lot of work into shaping you into a good human being,” Tony says, handing the phone back to Peter. “And your video editing skills are indeed impressive. You need to send that to Pepper. She’ll be pleased to know that you’re putting what you learned during your internship to good use.”

“Okay, I will,” Peter says, smiling again as he pockets his phone.

“Hey. Do you think you can show me how to make a video like that?” Tony asks. “That looks like fun. I could use a harmless hobby like that, to keep me out of trouble.”

“Yeah, if you want, sure, but—can I tell you something first?” Peter asks. “Since we’re being like, honest or whatever right now.”

“Of course. Shoot.”

“Okay. Okay, you know what you were saying when we were in the car, about me trying to be more assertive or whatever—”

Tony interrupts Peter's rambling before it can snowball. “Just spill it, kid. We’re in a shame-free zone, you don't have to explain.”

Peter takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself. 

“Okay. The thing is...I don’t really like this marketing internship,” he confesses. “I think I kinda...hate marketing, actually. Like really _hate_ it.”

Tony sags in his chair. “Oh, thank god.”

“Yeah. I just said I liked it because I really like Miss Potts, and she was so happy with the work I was doing. I mean, I’m so grateful for this internship and I’m glad I got to try it but...yeah. I hate it.”

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” Tony tells him. “I hate it, too.”

“Yeah. I think if I decide to pursue the photography thing, I’d rather do like, photojournalism or something,” Peter continues thoughtfully. “Maybe make documentaries.”

Tony’s relief evaporates. But he forces a smile through his despair. 

“That’s wonderful,” he lies through his teeth. “You know I’ll help you out if you ever need anything. I’m real proud of you, kid, whatever you decide to do.” That much is true, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr as [groo-ock](https://groo-ock.tumblr.com/)


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